18

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I arrived at Waterloo Station before seven in the morning. Rosie was standing on the steps holding a cotton bag and two tickets.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d come,’ she said.

‘Of course I’ve come. But I’m going to need at least a shilling for the fare. And another to repay a loan.’

The previous evening, Rosie had declined to explain further nor even come inside. Afterwards, as I was bolting the door, I wondered whether I had drunk from the bottle after all and was suffering an hallucination. It seemed impossible that Bill had been murdered. I’d seen him only four days previously and he’d been hale and mischievous, frolicking down the pavement with Sam on his shoulders. Why on earth would anyone want to kill him?

Rosie walked almost the length of the train before finding an empty compartment. Another fellow looked as if he might try to follow us in, but she slammed the door and gave him such a fierce glare through the window he blanched and hurried away. She sat down and opened her copy of Molly Bawn, which I knew for a fact she’d read several times before.

The guard blew his whistle and the train lurched forward. The platform was quickly bathed in smoke and steam, and I daydreamed that, when it cleared, we might magically be thrown back to our first trip down to Portsmouth and the last week would never have happened. Bill would be alive, and I would be about to attempt an explanation of the working of the tides to little Lillian.

‘Where are the children?’ I asked.

Rosie didn’t look up. ‘With Lilya and Jacob. Lilya told me you were lodging at the pharmacy, though I would’ve guessed that anyway.’

She went back to her book, and we were about an hour into the journey, pulling out of the station at Guildford, before I made another attempt at conversation.

‘What do you know of what happened to Bill?’

She removed her spectacles.

‘Not much. Viola sent me a telegram. She said Bill was dead, murdered and left on the beach like the others.’

‘Was his throat slit as well?’

She flinched, and I ground the heel of my right shoe down my left shin. Asking questions too bluntly was a malady I seemed unable to cure. Normally, Rosie was the one who softened my indelicacies.

‘I don’t know.’

She opened her bag and extracted a handkerchief – one of a set I had given her for Christmas – and dabbed her eyes. For the next few minutes, she faced the window, though I sensed there was something else she wished to say as her breathing was increasingly uneven. Eventually, she spoke so quietly I could hardly hear her.

‘Who was that woman you were with?’

I had already decided to be completely candid.

‘Alice Morgan. She’s Mr Quinton’s mistress.’ I waited for Rosie to meet my eyes. ‘I didn’t think it was you, after the police raid. If I’d known, I would’ve gone straight back. I would never have let you be arrested and spend a minute in jail, let alone a whole night.’

It was the honest truth.

She stared down at the cover of her book and I feared she would open it again and resume reading. But instead, she raised it to her face and began rapping it against her forehead with growing force.

‘I hate this. I do. I want to trust you, but I know you looked back and saw me. And still you walked away with that other woman.’

‘I thought … ’ I put my head in my hands. ‘This is the truth. I thought you were Viola.’

Rosie ceased beating herself with the book. ‘And you think that’s a good excuse?’

‘Probably not. But she’s not my responsibility. Bill was there to look after her.’

‘Mother of God, Leo. She’s pregnant.’

‘I know, but I had no idea they’d arrest her … I mean, you. Why were you there anyway?’

‘Viola told me Bill had followed you. She was upset. Bill’s been in trouble with the police before, apparently. I went to warn him, but too late.’ She sat back, hugging her book to her chest. ‘Tell me about this Alice Morgan. I’ve never heard of her.’

‘Quinton gave her the Blood Flower as a pendant, but she lost it. It came off when we were leaving the club. She was afraid Quinton would kill her in retaliation, although … ’ I pushed my fingers through my hair, knowing how feeble this would sound. ‘Although he didn’t.’

Rosie gave me a harsh look. ‘It was good of you to hold her hand. Very comforting, I’m sure. You’re a sap for a damsel in distress.’

I took a deep breath and sat back. ‘Rosie, what do you expect of me? We’re husband and wife, but we don’t share a bed. You’ve always made clear this was a convenient arrangement, nothing more. Am I supposed to lead the life of a priest?’

She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, I could see some part of my Rosie again, the merest flicker of compassion behind the glare.

‘We should’ve talked about that, I suppose.’

‘We should.’

‘But, Leo, are you sure this woman truly lost the ruby? Isn’t it more likely she still has it, and her fright was an act to play on your sympathies?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

I couldn’t explain my reason: that if Rosie was right, then the evening Alice and I had spent together was nothing more than a charade.

‘She was genuine. I’m sure of it.’

Rosie gave me a look that said: are you truly that gullible?

‘Who then?’ she said. ‘Let’s go through the list of possible murderers. I’ll start. Alice Morgan.’

‘Very well, if you insist.’ I didn’t want to prolong the argument. ‘Next, the Navy man, Chastain. He brought the Blood Flower to England in the first place. Micky Long stole it and ended up dead.’

‘And Mr Quinton.’

‘Yes.’ I pictured the hoodlum, and the brute that shadowed him. ‘He would’ve instructed his man, Stephan, to do the actual killing. A very scary fellow indeed.’

‘And that young lad, Timothy Honey, who was arrested. He was Micky’s friend. And Natalia’s. Perhaps he wanted the ruby as well.’

This was all I had hoped for: Rosie and I together again, trying to solve a crime, spreading out the suspects in front of us like ingredients.

‘We must consider Olga Brown too.’ I remembered her being lifted on the rope by her teeth. ‘She knew Micky and Natalia, and she has the strength of any man.’

Rosie scoffed. ‘More, I would say. But I don’t think it was her. She was distraught at Natalia’s death.’

It was my turn to give her the look. ‘Is your judgement of people so much better than mine?’

‘Yes. And I’m sure it wasn’t her.’

‘She said she likes you as well.’

Rosie looked pleased despite her frostiness. ‘Truly, what did she say?’

‘That you were wise.’

‘Hmm.’ She gave me a sour look. ‘I don’t always feel very wise.’

‘Perhaps truly wise people don’t.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘What nonsense. Of course truly wise people know they’re wise, otherwise they wouldn’t be wise, would they?’ She contemplated this for a second. ‘But I can see why you’d make that mistake. Idiots don’t always know they’re idiots.’

I suppressed a grin. Being insulted by Rosie was an honour.

The guard came down the corridor, staggering from side to side as the train rattled and jerked.

‘Next stop Liss!’ he shouted. ‘Ten minutes.’

‘Who else?’ said Rosie. ‘We have to be quick.’

I couldn’t think of anyone but didn’t want her to go back to her book.

‘Miss Morgan told me the Blood Flower has magical properties. She said it has the power to pull things towards itself or push them away. She thinks that’s how it detached itself at the club.’

Rosie pursed her lips so hard I thought she might burst a vein. ‘Does Miss Morgan smoke opium by any chance?’ When I said nothing, she folded her arms.

I was tempted to tell her that Constance had assured me the effects of opium were short-lived and no permanent derangement could ensue from its use, but I had already determined that nothing would shift my wife from her low opinion of Miss Morgan. And, if I was utterly honest, I rather liked that Rosie felt ill-disposed towards her; no one had ever been jealous about me before.

‘When all this is done,’ I said, ‘will I be able to come home? Will we be as we were before?’

Rosie returned to gazing out of the window. ‘I don’t know. All I can think about at the moment is Viola.’

At Liss, a young couple joined us in the compartment, talking avidly of their plans for the seaside, and we couldn’t continue our conversation. But still, Rosie fetched her cotton bag down and produced a pasty wrapped in waxed paper.

‘I got it at the station,’ she said, handing it to me. ‘I’m not hungry now. Lord knows, I can’t afford for it to go to waste.’

We reached Portsmouth shortly after nine o’clock. As we exited the station forecourt, I found a messenger boy and handed him a note with an address.

‘Take this,’ I said. ‘For Mr Black. Do you understand?’

Rosie gave me a curious look. ‘Are you sure? He should be added to our list of suspects.’

‘Peregrine?’

‘Of course. He has a terrible temper, and he mixes in dubious company. And like you said before, you really know nothing about him.’

‘But I know him. And we need his help.’

Rosie sniffed. ‘We can’t rule him out.’

I chose not to risk another frost so soon after the thaw. But inside, I discounted my friend. He wouldn’t murder a person. Or, more accurately, he wouldn’t murder a person in that way. A victim of Peregrine’s wrath wouldn’t be left on the beach, pristine but for a cut to the throat. They would be hacked into tiny pieces or beaten with furniture, and Peregrine himself would be roaring in the street, bathed in their blood.

We reached Viola’s house shortly after ten o’clock. The door was open, but before I could go inside, Rosie stopped me.

‘Wait, Leo. Remember that she’s newly widowed in the worst way. I know you think she’s half-mad, but please be sensitive.’

I saw in her face that she was frightened for her sister. Rosie was a resourceful person, and she didn’t like problems she wasn’t able to fix. She would mend the whole world, if she could.

Sergeant Dorling was in the hallway, smoking a cigar and paging through a notebook. He looked up as we came in.

‘Stanhope. And Mrs Stanhope. Terrible business, this.’

Rosie tensed beside me and didn’t reply, which was unlike her. I couldn’t blame her though. A night in the police cells probably deserved a little discourtesy.

‘Do you have any suspects?’ I asked.

He peered at me from under his grey eyebrows, more resembling a stern grandfather than a policeman.

‘We have a number of avenues we’re exploring.’ I took this to mean ‘no’, an inference which visibly annoyed the sergeant. ‘How’s that article of yours coming along? I hope it’s as supportive of our efforts as you promised.’

‘Of course,’ I lied, not having started it. ‘Is Mrs Broadman at home?’

‘Well, that is a question.’ His face took on an ugly sort of smirk. ‘She’s present in person. But her mind is somewhere else as far as I can tell. She’s at home, but she’s also not at home. In the head, do you see?’

I refused to acknowledge what he presumably thought was a joke.

The parlour was a mess. Every drawer had been opened and on the floor were scattered candles, crystals, books, feathers and broken glass.

Viola was sitting by the pedestal table we had used for the séance, with Jack-the-bloody-dog on her lap. She turned as we came in and her face was as pale as ash. Rosie put her arms around her sister, holding her tightly.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have left.’

Viola slightly pulled away. ‘It’s all right. Truly.’

‘I’ll ask you again, when did you last see your husband?’ said Dorling, who had come in behind us.

‘I’ve answered all your questions,’ she replied, with a hint of tartness.

I realised there was something strange about her appearance, which was that there was nothing strange about her appearance. I had expected her to be dishevelled and distraught, possibly in weeds, but she was wearing a simple green frock, and her hair was neatly tied. Aside from the paleness of her skin and the redness around her eyes, she appeared exactly as before.

‘You haven’t answered any of my questions,’ said Dorling. ‘Do you have the slightest clue why your husband was killed? Anything at all?’

‘He’ll tell us soon,’ she replied, giving us a knowing smile. ‘Can you imagine how furious he is at this moment? Absolutely livid, I’d imagine.’

I exchanged a look with Rosie, but she was as lost for words as me.

The door opened and their lodger came in carrying a tray with the air of a man who believed he alone knew what ought to be done. He placed the tray on the table and proceeded to pour a dash of milk into the two cups from a patterned jug, and swirl around the tea in the pot, which was covered with a knitted cosy.

‘I’m sorry, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘And Mrs Stanhope, of course. I didn’t realise you’d be here.’

He poured the tea, spooned three sugars into each cup, pushed one towards Viola and retired to the sofa with the other.

Dorling frowned at his notebook. ‘What was your name again?’

‘Edward Hapsworth. I’m sure you’ll want to know when we last saw Bill. It was two evenings ago at approximately eight-fifteen. He was on his way to the pub. He often stops – stopped there before he began his evening’s work. He was a night-soil man.’

‘And how did he seem?’

‘Excited. Elated. Brimming with joie de vivre.’

Dorling raised his eyebrows and smoothed out his moustache. ‘Why was he like that?’

‘He said he’d soon be rich.’ Hapsworth pulled his mouth into a brittle smile that didn’t reach his cheeks, let alone his eyes. ‘He said they wouldn’t need to take in a poltroon like me as a lodger any longer.’

Viola reached out and squeezed his wrist. ‘He didn’t mean it, Eddie.’

I saw Rosie glance from her sister’s fecund belly to Mr Hapsworth and back again.

‘What made him think he’d soon be rich?’ asked Dorling.

Hapsworth took a sip of his tea. ‘I have no idea. Some scheme, I should think. He wasn’t what you’d call an honest man.’

I cleared my throat, and he looked in my direction as mildly as if I’d interrupted him watching a game of cricket on the green.

‘Mr Hapsworth, someone has clearly searched this house. Presumably, it was the same person or people who murdered Bill Broadman. Where were you when that happened?’

‘I was at my place of work. I’m a post office clerk.’ He indicated Viola. ‘Mrs Broadman wasn’t here either. She was taking her morning walk with the dog. It’s good for the baby, you see. When she came back, the house was … well, like this.’ He cast around the room in a disinterested fashion. ‘I suppose someone ought to tidy it up.’

I got the impression it wouldn’t be him.

‘Is every room like this?’

‘Yes. Or worse. Disgusting, some of it.’

‘If they’d found what they were looking for, they would’ve stopped looking,’ I said. ‘So, unless it happened to be in the very last place they searched, it’s reasonable to suppose they didn’t find it.’

Of course, I knew what it was. There was only one sensible explanation. Bill had been at Papaver when Alice lost the Blood Flower. He must have got close to us in the crush and pulled it from her neck. It was worth more money than he could imagine, and he would have no way to sell such a treasure, but still, fool that he was, he’d bragged about his new wealth to Mr Hapsworth and, most likely, every dubious character in half the pubs in Southsea. His stupidity had got him killed.

I turned to Sergeant Dorling. ‘Where was Bill’s body found?’

He seemed to toss up in his mind whether to tell me, eventually deciding it would do no harm. ‘Same as the others. Throat slit and left on the beach.’

‘Clearly, Bill didn’t have the … whatever it was … on his person when they killed him, and they came here to search for it. Do you have no suspects at all?’

Dorling ran his tongue over his blackened teeth. ‘Honey’s gone missing. That Negress has been nagging at us to find him but I’m not wasting our time hunting for some molly-boy.’

‘There’s no need for any of this,’ said Viola. ‘The spirits will give us all the answers we seek.’

Rosie crouched down in front of her sister. ‘You can’t stay here, Viola,’ she said. ‘Whoever did this might come back and hurt you. They might think you know where it is.’

Viola put her hands lightly on the table as if about to play the piano.

‘I have to stay,’ she said. ‘The spirits know to come here.’

Rosie closed her eyes. I had the feeling she had expected that answer.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Then we’ll stay with you.’